


You Bloody Snake

by irisbleufic, procrastinatingbookworm



Series: Have Faith [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Denial, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Enemies, Enemies to Not Quite Friends, Established Relationship, Fallen Angels, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Hastur Is A Hot Mess, M/M, Neurodiversity, New Relationship, Not Good Omens (TV) Compliant, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Second Chances, Self-Denial, Suicidal Thoughts, Test of Character, Thwarted Revenge, Trials, unlikely allies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: “Woss this, then?” Ligur asked, sitting up so abruptly that everyone present jumped.“That’s, er,” said Aziraphale, nervously, to break the tense silence, “a long story.”“You was dead,” Hastur choked, reaching for him, “and now you ain’t. That’s all.”“Then bein’ dead’s warm,” Ligur said, puzzled as Hastur fell on him. “Safe, too.”Hastur clutched Ligur to his chest, more than slightly relieved when Ligur latched on and patted his back. The action was easy and familiar, as if they’d just shared a joke.





	1. UNFAIR

When Hastur finally woke up, he realized the sky was blue.

That wasn’t right. The sky should have been blood-red, maybe darker, rippling with the wings of Heavenly and Infernal armies. Not this tranquil, cloudless, limitless _blue_.

He was lying in an alleyway, between a nondescript brick wall and a building with evenly-spaced windows. The windows showed a room full of people holding bits of paper in their hands, faces washed-out and empty, speaking into telephones.

Half of Hastur’s body was writhing maggots, spread out across the pavement. He could almost hear Ligur saying _I bet that’s what humans who’ve had a whatzit, a_ stroke _feel like_.

Except Ligur wasn’t there.

It all came back in a rush. Talking on the drive to Crawly’s apartment, the way Ligur had licked his lips after he took a chunk out of that little old lady’s neck, and then…

Hastur squeezed his eyes shut. He’d _eaten_ those people on the phones. He’d devoured them, licked the flesh from their bones, and there they were. Breathing. Chattering.

“Ligur?” Hastur asked. He was hungry, as if he had never even eaten the telemarketers, and exhausted from…from…from the fight with Crawly.

There was something wrong with his memory. There were gaps in it fit to rival Swiss cheese.

Fuming, Hastur dragged his body together. He stormed into the room with the even windows and dug in. He was more controlled this time. He’d need a phone afterward, or possibly a radio. Wasn’t that how Dagon usually communicated with Crawly?

The latter was more viable, as it didn’t take him long to find a functioning transistor in one of his victims’ desks. He switched it on and said the Words, patching himself through.

_CROWLEY, MY BOY? IF THAT’S YOU, I’D ADVISE YOU NOT TO SHOW YOUR FACE HERE IN PERSON OR AS STATIC FOR THE FORESEEABLE ETERNITY._

“My boy,” Hastur scoffed, setting the radio down with a pointed _thump_. “No, it’s me! I need to talk to you about the, er...the thing that happened. If it even happened?”

_THE WHOLE THING WAS A DISASTER, NOT THAT I HADN’T BEEN DOING MY LEVEL BEST TO WARN HEAD OFFICE FOR CENTURIES. THANK THE DARK COUNCIL FOR THAT ACTUARIAL TRAINING. ANYWAY, IT’S ENOUGH OF A MESS DOWN HERE WITHOUT THE RED TAPE OF A FAILED APOCALYPSE. MAYBE NOT TALKING ABOUT IT WILL HELP THE MESS BLOW OVER._

“But,” Hastur said, ashamedly, in a small voice he hadn’t known he possessed, “Ligur’s gone.”

_EVERY WAR HAS CASUALTIES. EVEN WARS THAT DIDN’T TECHNICALLY OCCUR._

“Not _him_ , it doesn’t!” Hastur seethed, bearing down on the radio. “Do something!”

_I CAN’T HELP YOU. ASK THE ANTICHRIST, MAYBE HE WILL. IF HE’S EVEN STILL THE ANTICHRIST? THAT POSSIBILITY HAD OCCURRED TO ME IN THE PROCESS OF RUNNING OUTCOME MODELS._

Hastur kicked the desk. “I’d take this up with your direct manager if he weren’t the Morningstar himself, you—you pencil-pushing twat!”

 _TWAT?_ NOW _WHO’S GONE NATIVE? TAKE IT UP WITH THE BOSS’S WAYWARD SON. HE’S IN LOWER TADFIELD. OXFORDSHIRE VILLAGE, VERY PICTURESQUE. THAT’S THE BEST ADVICE I CAN GIVE YOU. GODSPEED._

Hastur smashed the transistor. Dire days indeed, if Lord of the Files was invoking the Almighty.

Lower Tadfield, then. It wasn’t as if he’d planned on spending the rest of his miserable day in Middle of Bloody Nowhere, Back of Beyond, but it might as well happen.

Hastur realized that his chest ached, like someone had taken a blade to it. He examined his sternum, searching for injury. He rubbed at unmarred skin with his fingertips.

If this was what humans meant when they said their heart hurt, he didn’t want any part of it.

Lower Tadfield, though. He could do _that_. With a bit of intentional misinterpretation, he could call it following orders. Dagon was still the flunky handing out assignments, after all.

Catching the boy alone, it turned out, was easier said than done. When he wasn’t with his pitiful excuse for a Hellhound (which was _never_ ), sister, and parents, he was with the same rowdy gang that had helped him defeat the Horsemen. Unbelievable.

Finally, Hastur found his opportunity. The boy was walking home, his dog (called _Dog_ , no wonder the Apocalypse had been a failure) was running ahead to chase some rodent, and there was no one around to see or overhear.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Prince of Darkness,” Hastur growled. It occurred to him that he should fear this boy, son of his Master, who held the world in his palm. “Looks to me like you fixed almost everything, but you forgot somethin’. That—that bloody _snake_ killed my— _my_ —killed Ligur. _Killed_ ’im! With _Holy Water_ , even!”

The ache in Hastur’s chest suddenly surged and caught in his throat. He had to swallow hard to get his voice back under control. Was this how humans felt when they lost someone?

“You’ve got to...put ’im _back_ ,” Hastur finally managed, the order pathetic on his tongue.

Adam considered him in silence. His eyes were a violent, storm-tossed blue, and his blond hair was just long enough to obscure the tips of his ears. He looked neither hellish, nor human.

But he also looked just like his father.

“Nah,” Adam said. “I reckon that wouldn’t be fair, would it? Redoing the do-over, an’ the like?”

Hastur clutched at his chest again, still expecting to feel the protruding handle of a blade. 

“What d’you mean, _nah_?” he demanded, furious. “That’s not—it isn’t bloody fair!” 

“That’s what I said. You tried to kill Crowley, an’ he fought back. It’s just consequences.”

Hastur gaped, temporarily lost for words. Of all the _nerve_. He flung himself forward, hands outstretched to close around the Antichrist’s throat.

“I said no,” Adam said, suddenly three feet to the left of where he had been. “ _Down_.”

Hastur’s momentum carried him forward, and he landed on his stomach in the grass. He sat up halfway, but that was as far as he could get before his limbs just stopped obeying.

“You hurt people, you and him,” Adam pronounced in the silence. “So I’m not going to give him back to you. You’d just cause trouble. See, I don’t want you getting the idea that you can just do whatever you want and not pay for it. Seems to me it isn’t right.”

Hastur closed his eyes. He could feel the Antichrist’s power at the periphery of his awareness, holding him in place. Humiliation flooded him.

“If you won’t help,” said Hastur, with as much viciousness as he could muster, “then can you at least _point_ me to somebody who might—”

“Why are you asking me for their names?” Adam asked. “Seems to me you already know ’em.”

“An’ how are those traitors supposed to raise the bloody dead?” Hastur challenged, full of spite.

“They have authority here whether they know it or not,” Adam said cryptically. “You’ll see.”

Hastur’s lip curled. No wonder they hadn’t collected the kid and brought him home for punishment. He would’ve blinked them out of existence and not lost a wink of sleep.

He tried to stand up, and found that he could. Adam was still looking at him, head half-tilted, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“So it’s off to London, eh?” he said bitterly. “Do this old bloke a solid an’ give me a lift?”

Adam broke into a mischievous grin and nodded. “I can do that much to help, I reckon.”

In much the same way that Adam had been in one spot and then in another, Hastur was no longer in a country lane. He was standing on the pavement outside the Principality’s dingy-looking bookshop, which might as well have been Crawly’s _actual_ flat for all the time he spent there. It was a miracle he and Ligur had even found him in Mayfair.

 _A fuckin’ miracle_ , Hastur thought, unlocking the door with a thought, less inclined than ever toward propriety. _To even think that’s what I need, the gall of it._

Crawly and the Principality weren’t even in the back room. Hastur had to haul all the way up the rickety staircase just to find them cozied up on a settee in the angel’s tiny flat.

Aziraphale fixed Hastur with the deadliest glare he’d seen since that time he and Ligur crossed the fragile-looking Archangel with the bow, What’s-her-face, and almost didn’t live to tell.

“I was given to understand you’re at least _literate_ ,” he said coldly. “The shop is closed.”

“Er,” said Crawly, cowering against the angel’s side. “I wouldn’t give him that much credit.”

Hastur’s vision went red. He set his eyes on Aziraphale and charged. Never mind that he didn’t have a weapon; he was too exhausted to summon even a lick of hellfire. He’d claw the angel’s corporation to shreds and devour the soul inside if that’s what it took.

Instead, for the second time in half an hour, he ended up flat on his face. He fought to regain control of his limbs, blinking dark spots from his vision.

Aziraphale was standing, one arm outstretched, the other reaching back to shield Crawly. His eyes burned silver, and his expression was downright _murderous_.

Hastur rested his forehead on the worn floorboards and felt himself start to shake. “Shouldn’t I get something?” he asked. “You took mine, so isn’t it fair I get to take yours?”

Crawly sucked in a breath, stepping forward in dismay. “You mean Adam didn’t…? He put everything else back, so I just assumed...” 

“The only thing he _didn’t_ put back was Ligur,” Hastur snarled. “Devil’s own luck.”

Now, _that_ was funny. Devil’s son, devil’s luck. Hastur started to laugh, but it came out wrong, cracked and thick. The ache that he’d almost gotten used to exploded in agony. He made a low sound, clutching at his stomach and chest, his body trembling with the pain of it.

“Hey,” Crawly was saying, shaking Aziraphale’s outstretched arm. “ _Hey_ , angel—”

“I’m listening, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, letting both arms drop to his sides. “What is it?”

“I kind of did, you know—” Crawly guiltily made a cut-across-the-throat gesture “—Ligur. Told you all about it.” He sighed, staring at Hastur with trepidation. “Maybe we ought to…”

“I don’t want your—” Hastur growled, but his voice fell apart before he could finish the sentence. He pounded a fist on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to look at them, so close together, so…connected.

“Oh, it’s not pity,” Crawly reassured him, with a nervous laugh. “It’s— _look_. What I did, when you get right down to it, is no better than what a human would’ve done. What you said in the moment? Absolutely true. Not even a demon would do that to another—”

“It was self-defense,” Aziraphale cut in primly, fixing Hastur with a lofty stare. “End of story.”

“It was _orders_ ,” Hastur shot back, trying to pick himself up. “We was supposed to go and fetch you. Sure, we volunteered, but we were just middle-men. Weren’t even gonna rough you up. Boss doesn’t like damaged merchandise.”

Crawly cleared his throat, leaning close to the angel’s ear. “Messing people about,” he sighed.

Aziraphale shot him a sidelong glance, discomfited. “Damn that boy. _Damn_ him to—”

“So what do we do?” Crawly asked, with utterly undemonic anxiety. “It’s not like we can just…” He snapped his fingers, seemingly at a loss.

“S’just the problem,” Hastur said, hauling himself into a sitting position. “The boy didn’t say.”

“Not as if he would,” remarked Aziraphale, dryly. With a look of consternation, he bent and offered Hastur his hand. “Up you get. We can’t very well discuss this with you down there.”

Hastur scrubbed at his face and stood up on his own, ignoring the angel’s offered help.

“Down There’s the only place I’ve ever been, it feels like,” he muttered. “Still am, an’ you think you can be _civil_ , just like that?”

Meanwhile, Crawly had gone over to the wall phone and was dialing a number from memory.

“Hello?” he said. “Mr. Young? Could I speak to—to Adam, please? Oh, he hasn’t done anything. That we know of? Yet, _er_. Nuh. Just wanted to ask him something. Hello, Adam? I suppose you sent—ah, of course. The question is, what are we supposed to do? What—? _Ngh_. Did you really have to do that?”

Aziraphale turned in alarm, catching Crawly’s elbow. The phone slid from Crawly’s grasp as the angel held him upright, and then folded him into a careful embrace as the line went dead.

Momentarily, Hastur considered lunging at Aziraphale again. His guard was down, so it would be easy, just like what Crawly had done to Ligur. And he’d take out the snake in the same blow.

Pain shot through Hastur’s abdomen again, debilitating. Before he could recover, Aziraphale turned around again, and the chance passed.

“Listen, people,” Crawly said, voice muffled against the angel’s shoulder, “you’re really going to like this, except…” He laughed, thin and strangled. “Except you really _won’t_.”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Aziraphale murmured, actually stroking the bastard’s hair. “You’re hysterical.”

Hastur sank down in the overstuffed armchair and fought the urge to draw his knees up to his chest. So the rumors were true, every last one of them. Crawly and the angel were…

They were what no demon _or_ angel should ever want to be, let alone with each other.

Crawly took a few completely unnecessary breaths, clutching the angel’s arms to steady himself. 

“Adam’s willing to compromise. He’s not bringing Ligur back just like that, because according to him, _um_. His words, not mine—you deserved what you got for messing people about and hurting them. But if you’re willing to make…allowances, so is he.”

Hastur processed for a moment. “What the fresh, bloody hell does any of that _mean_?”

“I’m still figuring it out myself,” Crawly said, shrugging. “Adam says you’ve got to prove that you’re deserving. By way of…” His eyebrows drew together. “Trials. To prove your virtue.”

Hastur choked out a laugh. “I haven’t got virtue. Neither should you—or him, for that matter.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Crawly glanced at Aziraphale in sudden alarm. “We’ve got to...”

“I believe I’m getting the shape of this,” Aziraphale said wearily. “Tutors all over again, is it? Only this time, we’ve got to do it _ourselves_ , and the student is anything _but_ young, human, and malleable. Have I got the gist?”

Crawly just nodded miserably. He let his head drop back against the angel’s shoulder, which got him the angel’s arms wrapped even more tightly around his middle.

“I’m sitting right here,” Hastur groused, turning his head. Looking at them made him feel sick “I’m not partial to this, either, Mr. High-an’-Mighty. But if I’ve got to, I’ll put up with your bloody trials. If it means that I…”

Crawly raised his head and disentangled himself from the angel’s embrace. He approached Hastur, eyes narrowed, closer than he’d stood in millennia.

“If it means you what?” he prompted, folding his arms across his chest. “Why don’t you say it?”

Hastur lowered his head, closing his eyes. He fought against the stinging that welled in them.

“Oh,” said the angel, too quietly for comfort. “Oh, my dear. I do think you’re onto something.” 

“I’d do anything,” Hastur gritted out, screwing up his face, “ _anything_ , to have him back.”


	2. PRUDENCE

“Why are we feeding ducks?” asked Hastur, for what must have been the fifth time. He tugged his overcoat tighter, earning a few strange looks from the human passers-by.

It might have been warm by Earth’s standards, but for someone who spent most of their time in Hell, it was frigid. Hastur also felt inexplicably self-conscious about the rest of his clothes.

“That’s the trial,” Crawly explained again, quite unhelpfully. “Prudence, ergo: feed the ducks.”

“What do ducks have to do with prudence? An’ why’s prudence a virtue, anyway? Sounds like a word off a memo from Downstairs. Or off a Commendation from Upstairs. You showed _prudence_ in your unwarranted destruction of the Enemy.”

“No such Commendation has ever existed, obviously,” said Aziraphale, tearing off another crust. “I would have been the recipient. Furthermore, I have no interest in destroying Crowley.”

“Missing the point,” Hastur growled. He snatched the loaf from the angel’s hand. “You trying to trick me, or somesuch? With the bread. Tryin’ to get me in a corner, so you can say, there, he doesn’t have a chance at being good?”

“You’re suspicious,” Crawly said cautiously, tossing some bread. “I get it. But there’s no trick here.”

“Everyone knows you ain’t supposed to give ducks _bread_ ,” Hastur scoffed, tossing the loaf onto the bridge dismissively. “They like fruit an’ veg. Bread’s bad for ’em. You’re tryin’ to trick me. Get me to do the wrong thing.”

Aziraphale glanced balefully at Crawly. “How is it that we’ve been in the wrong all this time?”

“Look, I know about _plants_ ,” Crawly said with a touch of defensiveness. “That’s about it.”

Hastur conjured up a handful of peas and tossed them into the pond. The ducks flocked to the new offering, nibbling curiously before they proceeded to devour it. Pleasing, to see that these innocuous-looking feathered creatures had _teeth_.

“They like bread,” Hastur explained, “but it’s too many carbs. Fills ’em up before they get enough nutrients.”

“How do you know all this?” Aziraphale ventured.

“Crawly ought to be able to tell you this stuff,” Hastur said, “on account of Hell thinking up obsession with carbs—workin’ with Famine, of course. And…” Hastur trailed off, and then mustered his voice. “Ligur loves duck. Raw, cooked, whatever way you can think of. But he’s a picky bastard. Can tell when they haven’t been eating right. So I figured I’d better find out how to raise ’em right for eatin’.” 

Crawly made an indecipherable noise and leaned on the bridge’s railing. “If I had any further interest in communicating with Head Office, which I definitely do _not_ , I’d get right on sending them a memo stating that we clearly haven’t been doing enough ice-breakers.”

Hastur made a line of frozen peas on the bridge railing and flicked them, one by one, into the water. The ducks went wild, even fighting each other for the tidbits. A few swans drifted over to see what the commotion was, and it turned out _they_ had teeth, too. Maybe he shouldn’t have laughed at Ligur for complaining about his problems getting a feathered snack.

“If you like _this_ ,” Crawly said to Hastur, almost companionably, but with distaste, “you ought to see what happens when the pelicans get hungry.” 

“One wonders why our late-night conversations have never re-evaluated the so-called joke with the dinosaurs,” said Aziraphale, after a loaded pause. “Somehow, from this angle of incitement, Darwin’s theory looks infinitely more...plausible.”

“Still don’t get what this has to do with virtue,” Hastur said, conjuring up handfuls of various fresh fruits. He leaned over the railing and aimed his next throw carefully, wondering if he could start a dogfight among the smaller waterfowl.

If he got _them_ riled up, then it might draw the pelicans’ interest, from the sound of things.

“You solved it,” Crawly told him, “before _we_ even figured it out. Feeding ducks bread—good in the moment, bad in the long term. Prudence.” 

Hastur threw a grape at a swan. It was approximately like starting a bar fight. Distract the big buggers, and the little buggers will recklessly take a swing at them.

“ _Ah_ , Hastur?” Crawly said nervously. “Might not want to tip this back ’round the bend.”

Hastur let the last of the fruit fall into the pond. “Right,” he muttered glumly. “I forgot myself.”

Aziraphale turned his head in Hastur’s direction, and then whirled to face Crawly in dismay.

“Really, my dear,” he said with fond, mild reproach. “Is this your idea of an existential joke?”

Crawly laughed. “Free will, angel. Who am I to judge if it takes the same path twice?”

Aziraphale was looking at the snake as if he’d hung not just the moon and stars, but the sun to boot. Maybe that was even true. They’d all had jobs before the Fall.

“That seems a little _too_ specific,” the angel chided, grinning. “This feels like a setup.”

“To a bad joke, maybe,” Crawly said. “Two demons and an angel walk into St. James’s Park…”

“...to feed the ducks,” Aziraphale finished, but he made it sound like the most scandalous human foreplay ever conceived. He and Crawly had drawn so close that the tips of their noses were touching. “Have I mentioned lately how much I appreciate your sense of humor?”

Crawly just leaned closer, kissing him slow and tender. _That_ wasn’t foreplay. That was just affection—with maybe a touch of passion—plain and simple and human.

Hastur cleared his throat. He expected them to disengage like they’d been caught by both sets of their respective superiors, but they held the kiss a moment longer, before easing apart.

“If you think I’m going to spare your delicate sensibilities,” Crawly said, “you’re mistaken.”

“Now, don’t be cruel,” Aziraphale said, but his tone indicated he didn’t mean it in the least.

“Angel, I’m serious,” Crawly said, his attention right back where it had been. “I’m not going to let us censor ourselves for the general public, much less for a lovesick—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently, touching Crawly’s cheek. “Even so, that’s quite enough.”

“I was forgetting myself?” Crawly suggested with a touch of sarcasm. He bit his lip with one too-sharp eyetooth, but laughter shone in his eyes.

It was then that Hastur realized Crawly wasn’t wearing his habitual sunglasses. Which was downright odd, given it was the kind of bright day on which humans _very_ much needed to.

Aziraphale kissed him again, swift and soft, as if he couldn’t help it. “You old serpent.”

Hastur scoffed at the whole sappy exchange—but, for some reason, he felt like smiling.


	3. TEMPERANCE

“For the record,” Crawly said, immediately putting Hastur on guard, “I don’t really like this. But we didn’t have a better option, so…just go with it, I guess.”

Hastur narrowed his eyes at the angel. “Since the ducks was Crawly’s idea, this one’s yours, eh?”

Aziraphale shrugged, waiting patiently while Crawly led the way down the hall to his office.

“You said you’d do anything,” he replied, “and I’m quite willing to take you at your word.”

That sounded awfully suspicious, but it was true. This particular angel seemed forthright.

“So what’s this virtue, then?” Hastur asked, glancing around in vague remembrance.

“Temperance,” Aziraphale said. “Refraining from doing what you feel the impulse to, er, do.”

Crawly opened the door, and his horrified exclamation made Hastur certain of what he’d see.

Ligur was still a pile of ashes. That Antichrist brat hadn’t even had the courtesy to hoover.

“Angel,” Crawly was saying, but Aziraphale paid him no mind. “Angel, are you _sure_ —”

“This trial is about temperance. You must learn that anger won’t help in the long run, and curbing your anger will, in fact, achieve the desired result.”

Hastur shut his eyes for a moment. They didn’t sting this time, but his chest ached fiercely.

_Which one of them_ , he thought. _Which one least deserves to go on living_?

Crawly was staring at the ashes with unabashed misery. “An apology feels inadequate.”

Aziraphale rubbed his jaw, staring out the window. “I rather think you’re not the one that needs to.”

Hastur lunged. He got one good claw-swipe down the angel’s throat before Aziraphale knocked him aside with one hand, a jab to his solar plexus that left him gasping on the floor.

“No!” Crawly gasped, clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulders, eyes wide and glittering with panic.

“Temperance,” the angel said, touching his neck, examining the blood on his fingertips. “I’d smite you right here, since you seem incapable of learning your lesson. But I’m not going to.”

Hastur curled his fingers into the ash-strewn carpet, which smoked under his touch. He could feel all that remained of Ligur under his palms. They should all burn for this, Hastur included. Why hadn’t he led the way? Ligur had just seemed so intent, so eager. Hastur should have known better, should have expected the snake to lay a trap.

Crawly lifted Aziraphale’s hand away from his neck and pressed _his_ to the wound. It healed.

“Hastur, look,” he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t change anything, but _you’ve_ been given a chance to. Just look at the bigger picture here—we did that one already. With the ducks. Foresight. _Prudence_. Hurting us won’t bring Ligur back, and you know that. Neither will burning down my flat.”

Sighing, Aziraphale lifted Crawly’s hand from his neck and kissed it. “Thank you, my dear.”

The carpet stopped smoking. Carefully, Hastur gathered Ligur’s ashes into his scorched palms.

“I should’ve gone first,” he murmured wretchedly. “Should’ve known better than to _trust_...”

“You’re making amends,” Aziraphale said quietly. “We all are. I’ve done my fair share of ill.”

It wasn’t enough to hear them say it. Comfort never sounded true coming from murderers’ mouths—Hastur knew that too well. He’d been the murderer often enough.

“You had some kind of epiphany just now,” said Crawly, cautiously. “No offense, but you always did wear your heart on your, er, face.”

Hastur shoved the handfuls of ashes in the pockets of his Mackintosh. He slowly got to his feet.

“I ain’t about to burn down your stupid _fucking_ flat,” he said, finding it so difficult to mask the extent of his rage that he _burned_ with it; the carpet steamed beneath his feet. “Satisfied?”

Aziraphale looked him up and down and nodded with reluctance. “Admirable. It may suffice.”

Hastur growled, low in his throat, before he could stop himself. He would burn it if he stayed, whether he wanted to or not. He turned and stormed out, feeling the carpet fibers sizzle, scorched in the shape of his footprints.

His heavy footfalls took him back to where they’d stood the day before, on the Blue Bridge in St. James’s Park. He stared down at the expectant ducks, fishing in his pockets. He found nothing but ash, and that only served to cement his resolve.

The angel had to go. Crawly’s eternal punishment would be to endure earthly existence alone.

Maybe he couldn’t kill Aziraphale, but there were always other ways. _Angels_ could kill other angels, couldn’t they? Easier than demons could, anyway. A broken sound forced its way out of Hastur’s throat. It might have been a laugh.

Last he’d heard, not all of the Archangels were what you’d call upstanding—smiting harder than necessary and all that rot. He thought of the slight one, the archer who’d nearly handed him and Ligur their arses. _Uriel_ , that was the one.

The thing was, Uriel hadn’t been alone at the time of the encounter. She rarely worked solo. The Archangels were stationed in pairs: two Above, two Below.

Gabriel and Michael had Heaven covered, while Uriel and Raphael were earthbound like the Principality. There was some kind of expectation they’d report Upstairs more often, and that checked out if you thought about the intensity of their zeal.

From what Hastur could recall, Those Above were more likely to destroy one of their own—but they wouldn’t listen to the likes of Hastur. Hoity-toity bastards. He wouldn’t get a sentence out before he was so much steaming ash. Who was to say he wouldn’t be better off?

On the other hand, Those Below had potential. They balanced each other out, far more than their Heaven-stationed counterparts. Uriel was compassionate, at least on the surface. She’d stay her more impulsive partner’s hand long enough to let Hastur say his piece. Raphael would jump at the chance to obliterate a member of the home-team gone astray.

Uriel was unassuming, but deadly, which made her a strong candidate. Smart enough to listen, sympathetic enough to gain the Principality’s trust before destroying him.

Raphael was unpredictable, liable to get smitey for fun rather than on orders from Upstairs. If Hastur survived a conversation with him, he’d no doubt be on board.

Contacting them would be the tricky part. They weren’t in Europe these days, that much he knew. The Second World War was the last time either of them had been anywhere near their London-based colleague, at least according to Dagon’s reconnaissance.

But if Hastur disappeared, Crawly and the angel would get suspicious. Somehow, he’d have to contact them via remote means. He’d spent just enough time lurking outside the Principality’s bookshop to know that he must have a device. The place stung with Celestial static.

That Antichrist brat thought he knew everything, didn’t he? Thought he could get one up on a has-been Duke of Hell. Hastur had been an utter fool to trust the boy, hadn’t he?

Well, that settled it. Hastur dug his fingers deep in Ligur’s ashes and thought, _I promise_.


	4. COURAGE

Hastur didn’t often have occasion, or even a reason, to consider his reflection. Existence in Hell wasn’t exactly something for which you had to look grand. You just got on with it.

With Crawly to his right and the Principality to his left, it looked like he was in for some kind of office-bonding experience that he had emphatically not signed up for. The kind that used buzz-words like _moral support_ and _self worth_.

“I assume Crawly came up with this one,” Hastur growled, watching the eyes of his reflection glow with annoyance. It was definitely the snake’s style, and his turn to pick the torture, to boot.

Why in Satan’s unholy name had he agreed to _any_ of this? He ought to’ve just gone down swinging the day before and saved himself the trouble. Ashes on the carpet, reunited with Ligur in oblivion.

“Yeah,” Crawly said, with a strange sort of smile. “Seemed like the logical next step, as it were. Courage to confront yourself, isn’t that ironic?”

Hastur snorted dismissively. “This the part where you tell me to think about my feelings?”

Crawly bared his teeth in what was probably meant to be a self-deprecating grimace. As it was, he looked like he was trying to mimic Ligur’s threatening leer, and doing a terrible job.

“Think about what you’re afraid to admit to yourself,” the serpent told him.

Then the angel spoke up. “Or, if it’s easier, think about what it is you _want_.”

*

“Oi!” Hastur shouted, glaring with manic intent into the blinding blue light. “I want a word!”

He’d said the Words a few times down the ages. It was always surprising that he remembered them, and how similar they were to the words _Hell_ used to patch through using human electronics. The Morningstar was either a fan of irony or a lazy bastard.

Not that you’d catch Hastur voicing either view—he had _some_ sense of self-preservation.

A frank, familiar voice echoed out of the blue light. She sounded just like Hastur remembered.

“You sure it was _us_ you were aiming for? Most people demand to go straight to the top. Lucky you caught us, though. We don’t plan on hanging around up here for long. Apocalypse debrief, what can you do?”

“That’s a demon,” a different voice said, with a screeching sort of buzz that made Hastur think of drunk humans grabbing the karaoke microphone from each other.

“What’s it to you?” Hastur growled at the Archangels. “Info’s info, does the source matter?”

“Demons lie,” said the second voice, with dismissive confidence, “or so I’ve _heard _, darling.”__

__“I’ve got no reason to,” Hastur said. “The demon Crawly and the Principality stationed here killed my best friend, an’ I want them to pay. Don’t _you_? For makin’ a botch of things?”_ _

__

____

*

“I don’t owe you anything,” Hastur snarled at Crawly’s reflection. “You killed my best friend.”

Crawly looked pale, but he’d fixed his unblinking gaze on Hastur. “I did. I’m responsible.”

“Start there if you’d like,” the Principality said encouragingly. “It’s as good a place as any.”

Hastur twitched. Now it seemed like they were talking _sense_ , and he didn’t like it.

“Usually this happens the other way around,” Crawly said. “Denial, then anger. But I’m glad we got anger out of the way first with temperance, because that’s not what you’re denying, see?”

“What the fuck are you on about now?” Hastur demanded. “Sounds fake, if you ask me.”

“The stages of grief,” Crawly explained. “Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. You’re doing them out of order, but the point still stands.”

“Yeah, but that’s a human thing,” Hastur said with uncertainty, scratching his chin. “Ain’t it?”

“Aren’t _we_?” Crawly replied cryptically. 

Hastur couldn’t find an answer, so he shut up.

“The point is,” the Principality said. Oh Dis _and_ Pandemonium, was Aziraphale’s voice starting to grate on Hastur’s ears. “The point _is_ —”

“Dolphins?” said Crawly, as if he couldn’t help himself. The two of them shared one of those disgustingly soft looks, and Hastur watched his own expression twist at a memory.

“The point is _that_!” Aziraphale declared, so loudly Hastur winced. “That,” he repeated, lowering his voice. “You see him everywhere, don’t you? In every interaction I have with Crowley, in every place you end up, in your every physical sensation. He haunts you.”

Crawly glanced at the angel, and then back at Hastur. He looked too earnestly curious for his own good. “Listen, this might be pushing the envelope a bit,” he said, “but were you and Ligur on a collision course with some sort of… _conversation_?”

*

“Why are we even having this conversation?” Uriel asked Raphael, her tone so unreadable that Hastur thought she might be nervous. “You’re right. _Most_ demons lie.”

“Demons don’t sell each other out, as a general rule,” Hastur said, realizing he had the moral high ground, “and I’m not really selling out Crawly. If I wanted him dead, I’d go to _my_ boss. I’m selling out one of your lot. He’s a traitor _and_ a deserter. Kill him or drag him Upstairs to rot in a cell, and we both get what we want. Aziraphale pays for his crimes, and the snake learns what it feels like to lose his…” Hastur’s voice failed him. 

“Go on,” Uriel said after a moment’s pause, her tone rather more frightening than it had been.

“Hang on,” Raphael cut in, clearly having a blast. “I think he’s implying good old Az is _more_ than just a deserter and a traitor. He’s a fornicator, too, if I’ve understood?”

“With the Enemy, no less,” Hastur said, pleased, baring his teeth into the light. “Appallin’!”

“And what were _you_ were doing?” Uriel asked harshly. “While this Crawly was…”

Hastur felt a vein in his neck pulse. “What demons do with _demons_ is none of your business. So, are you gonna take it out on the Principality’s sorry arse or not?”

“Somebody, I think,” said Raphael, tauntingly, “isn’t willing to admit to his own dirty deeds.”

*

“If you can’t admit to it,” Crawly went on, crestfallen, “then I rather think this trial is a wash.”

“You think I’m an idiot?” Hastur growled. “I’ve been to Hell, you twat. Manipulation don’t work.”

“Yeah, and so have I,” Crowley shot back. “Hated every minute of it. Seems to me, though, that you made the best of a dire situation. And you didn’t do it _alone_.”

“No, I didn’t,” Hastur said, aware he was giving ground and finding it hard to care.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself,” said Aziraphale, and the words for some reason made Crawly’s face screw up in pain, “can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”

“If you so much as continue to quote Milton,” Crawly muttered gloomily, “I’ll invoke the Bard.”

“ _Hamlet_ wouldn’t go amiss,” Azraphale said pensively, “or _The Tempest_ , at that.”

Crawly made an aggrieved sound and thumped the wall. “Hastur doesn’t know Shakespeare!”

Hastur’s chest ached. Not sharply, wound-like, as it had been, but as if the mirror’s finer shards had worked their way into his overtaxed lungs. He hated breathing, every second of it.

 _We were there when the Globe opened,_ Hastur thought. _Tempting the royals. But once, Ligur stole two pennies from some commoner, and we went to a show. I can still recite the whole blasted thing. I still remember how Ligur’s eyes shone._

“This is ridiculous,” he groused, thoughts drifting back to the previous night’s Archangelic encounter.

*

“Yeah, no, this is ridiculous,” Uriel insisted. “You’d better fess up if you want us to play ball. I’ve just decided your humiliation will be sufficient compensation for the lecture we’re gonna get from Upper Management over starting shit so soon after the Little Apocalypse That Couldn’t.”

“Liar, you _have_ been reading those kids’ books!” Raphael accused gleefully. “Adorable.”

“We’re demons,” spat Hastur, angrily. “Stationed together, just us, havin’ to deal with a bunch of humans and that moron Crawly on the regular. Fill in the fucking blanks.”

“Fill them in for us, Your Disgrace,” Uriel countered, her smugness audible, “or it’s no deal.”

“We weren’t havin’ it off, or anythin’ like that. So if you were hoping for a kiss-and-tell, you’ll have to go somewhere else. An’ demons aren’t really supposed to be friends. But he was my…he was…” Hastur shut his eyes, dismayed at the waver in his voice. _Mine_.

“Weren’t having it off?” asked Raphael, almost sadly. “Oh, _darling_. Why the hell not?”

“Because I fuckin’ respected him, all right?” Hastur shouted. “Because I gave a toss what he thought of me, of _us_! Because I didn’t want to get his stupid arse in Holy Water!”

“Huh,” Uriel said quietly, her echo an eerie rasp of static down the luminous connection.

Hastur sobbed. He covered his mouth with both hands and turned away from the light.

“Someone’s gotta pay,” he said, once he’d composed himself. “I’m goin’ mad. I’m goin’ _bloody_ mad. That snake’s gonna get away with it, he’s gonna get off scot _fucking_ free. He’s got his angel, and his flat, and his car, and his _ducks_. And I can’t even have my… _my_...”

*

“My _Ligur_!” Hastur wailed, and it was Aziraphale’s turn to recoil in complete shock.

Crawly blinked stupidly at Hastur’s reflection, his hands coming up in a slow, impressed clap.

“Well,” he yawned, “that’ll certainly do it. What d’you think, angel? Mission accomplished?”

Hastur buried his face in his palms, unable to look at himself any longer. “I don’t feel brave.”

*

“Hey, nobody said this was a judgment of your character,” Uriel deadpanned. “We already know _that_. Thanks for proving what was up with you and What’s-his-face by omission.”

“Ligur,” Hastur forced out. “His name was…his name’s Ligur. Now, will you do it or not?”

“Ought to be good for a laugh,” Raphael said whimsically. “If we’re in for a bawling-out…”

*

“It will do,” Aziraphale said primly, but there was a waver in his tone that might’ve been laughter.

Hastur struck the mirror with both fists, and it shattered. The pieces scattered, shards digging satisfyingly into his knuckles. He rested his forehead against the frame and took great, heaving breaths.

The hand on his shoulder was Crawly’s. He couldn’t even summon the will to brush it off.

Behind him, Aziraphale made a strained, contrite sound. It might have been sympathy or shock. “That’s, er, good. That’s actually _very_ good, Hastur.”

“Whatever happened to temperance?” Hastur sneered with wrung-out sarcasm.

“Grief,” the angel sighed, glancing wearily at Crawly. “Grief happened, as it will.”


	5. JUSTICE

“To be perfectly honest,” Crawly said, tossing a handful of frozen veg to the now healthily-fed ducks of St. James’s Park, “we don’t really know what to do for this one. Justice really isn’t exclusive to virtuous people.”

Hastur peeled a grape with his fingernails, watching the ducks circle closer. “They like me better than you ’cause I treat ’em right. How’s that for your bleedin’ irony?”

Since pulling a Judas on them, he’d found he had no motivation to play along anymore. Unless you counted the ducks, because the duck part was pretty all right.

“We made progress yesterday,” the Principality insisted. He’d conjured a loaf of bread out of habit and was methodically shredding it onto the deck of the bridge rather than send it back into the aether. “Even if it didn’t feel like it, you were very brave.”

That made Hastur’s chest twinge, even though he’d tried to close himself off. If only they knew what he’d done. They wouldn’t call him brave then.

It wasn’t demons who’d tempted Judas, for the record. That had been all Heaven’s doing, orchestrated from the dust of Earth all the way up to the Throne.

One pushy mallard quacked impatiently. Hastur threw the mangled grape at it. Ligur would have laughed at the confusion in its beady eyes when the fruit bounced off its head and was promptly snapped up by a cleverer competitor.

Hastur didn’t laugh. He listened to the serpent and the angel make idle conversation; they were discussing the possible trials they could foist upon him. Listlessly, he waited.

Waited for it all to be over, waited for the moment he’d be no more than the ash in his pockets.

Hastur wasn’t an idiot. Raphael and Uriel, as odd as they could be, were still angels. Hastur had offered himself up to them, throat bared. He was right here, beside the intended targets. If he wasn’t a casualty, he’d be an afterthought.

It would be Raphael, probably. Uriel had been hesitant enough to go along with things that Hastur was uncertain of her ability to kill at close range. That was plenty of archers for you: gleefully deadly at a distance, but unable to look their quarry in the eye, let alone shoot.

Even Tanith, a demoness who’d formerly been one of the finest marks in Heaven’s army, couldn’t hack it on torture detail. She’d requested bureaucratic reassignment.

Definitely Raphael, then. He might not even wait until the Principality was secured; he’d just put Hastur out of his misery immediately.

Uriel would likely do it if he asked, but he’d humiliated himself enough. Best to go out, if not on a high note, on a semi-dignified one.

Hastur breathed in. He slipped one hand into his pocket, curling his fingers through Ligur’s ashes. _I promised_ , he thought. _I promised you_.

Crawly’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Hastur? Er, _Hastur_? You still with us?”

_Not for much longer_ , Hastur thought. His attempted smile was more of a grimace.

“I’m practicin’ mindfulness,” he said, tossing another grape to the ducks. “No, prudence.”

Crawly smiled back at him. “Good. Don’t tell Downstairs, but you’re getting good at this.”

Hastur laughed. _They’ll make a traitor of me yet. Oh, wait. Seems they already have_.

Aziraphale looked him up and down suspiciously, but he smiled, too. He stood much closer to Crawly than necessary, one hand on the snake’s back, the other resting on the bridge’s railing. Sunlight caught in his grey-threaded hair, but he didn’t look angelic. Just _human_.

Crawly, seemingly without thought, covered the angel’s hand with his, lacing their fingers together. The angel, in turn, lifted their joined hands and tenderly kissed Crawly’s.

Hastur shut his eyes, bowing until his forehead touched his crossed arms. Something strangely akin to regret ate at him. The thought was foreign, but succinct: their happiness was no cause of his lack thereof. Not speaking his heart to Ligur had been his own damn fault. 

Not walking ahead into Crawly’s office was a choice he’d made, and now he had to live with it.

_Consequences_ , Adam had said. It wasn’t justice, making someone else suffer for _his_ grief. It was cowardice.

Hastur lifted his head. “I’ve made a mistake,” he announced, startling Crawly— _Crowley_ —and his angel out of their reverie. “You tell anyone and I’ll hunt you down myself, but you’ve got to run _now_. They’ll be here soon.”

“I assume you mean us,” Raphael said from directly behind them, twirling his pollaxe like it was somehow more impressive than just holding it. “Long time no see, Az! I’ve hear you’ve been _naughty _.” He sing-songed the last word, grinning.__

__Uriel glared, but not at Aziraphale or either of the demons. She kept her gaze on her partner, an arrow already nocked in her bow. She spared a blink for Hastur, as if to make a point._ _

__Aziraphale glanced back and forth between the Archangels and Hastur. “You sold us out.”_ _

__“For the record,” Hastur muttered, bowing his head in even deeper shame, “I’m sorry.”_ _

__“Not that it matters now,” Uriel said, fully drawing her bowstring. “Hey, Az. S’up?”_ _

__She could have put an end to it right there, put an arrow between _someone’s_ eyes—whose she’d aim for, Hastur couldn’t be sure—but hesitated._ _

__Raphael charged, aiming at first for Aziraphale. He turned his weapon at the last second and caught Crowley in the stomach, sending him sprawling across the bridge’s deck._ _

__Aziraphale put himself between the Archangel and his lover before Raphael even had the chance to stop laughing. He spread his wings to shield Crowley from further harm._ _

__Uriel fired. Hastur felt the air stir as it passed, and watched it miss Aziraphale by scarcely half an inch. The arrow lodged itself in a wooden post at the far end of the bridge._ _

__“Really, darling?” Raphael asked, looking at her askance. “You haven’t ever missed.”_ _

__“What?” Uriel retorted. “I’m out of practice. When’s the last time we actually fought something? Not last weekend, that’s for fucking sure!”_ _

__“Just admit you don’t want to play,” Raphael said, weapon raised, “and I’ll finish the game.”_ _

__“ _Wait_!” Hastur cried desperately. “With all due disrespect, just _stop_ —”_ _

__The angels’ heads turned his way, including Aziraphale’s._ _

__“Justice, right?” Hastur asked helplessly. “That’s what this was about.”_ _

__Crowley peered from beneath Aziraphale’s feathers, head tilted in confusion._ _

__“That’s why I sold you out, that’s why we’re here in the first place. Justice.”_ _

__Hastur marched over, grabbed Raphael’s pollaxe, and set the spear-tip against his chest._ _

__“This would be justice. For Ligur. I’m the one who let him walk ahead. I’m the one who was too much of a coward to ever say he meant the whole damn world. That’s on me, not them.”_ _

__Raphael burst into hysterical laughter, pressing forward. “I won’t say no to a free lunch.”_ _

__An arrow struck him in the shoulder. He dropped his weapon with a cry, more shock than pain._ _

__Uriel lowered her bow. “Sorry, Rafe. No such thing as a free lunch. Fuck off Upstairs and get that looked at, eh? Oh, _wait_. You’ll have to look at yourself? Oops! Hope I missed everything important, but…” She shrugged. “Out of practice.”_ _

__Crawly was looking at her like a human kid who’d just found a new role model. “Why did you never mention this one’s Canadian? Nice people, Canadians.”_ _

__“Why’d you never mention this one, _period_?” Uriel asked Aziraphale, shouldering her bow._ _

__Hastur gave the dropped pollaxe one longing glance, and then turned to help Aziraphale and Crowley to their feet. He almost ended up flat on his arse in the process._ _

__“How’s that for justice?” declared Hastur, more proudly than he felt. He grabbed the pollaxe, hefted it wistfully, and held it out to Raphael pointy-end first. “S’this yours?”_ _


	6. CHARITY

“You realize how much trouble I could get in, doing this?” Hastur groused, tuning the radio precisely.

Uriel, beside him in the passenger’s seat of Crowley’s Bentley, grinned. “Yep. That’s why it’s an act of charity.”

Crowley and Aziraphale sat behind them, commentating on the proceedings unhelpfully.

“A little to the left,” Crowley said. “No, not _that_ far.”

“I know how to do it,” Hastur snapped. “This ain’t my first go!”

_DAGON’S OFFICE, TANITH SPEAKING! HOW CAN I MAKE YOUR DAY MORE MISERABLE THAN IT ALREADY IS?_

“Got an old friend here,” Hastur said, which for some reason made Aziraphale and Crowley laugh.

Uriel covered her mouth with both hands. “Tanith. Old friend doesn’t _begin_ to cover it, holy _fuck_.”

There was a long, staticky pause, before Tanith spoke again, and it made Hastur’s skin crawl. 

_THIS BETTER NOT BE SOME KIND OF JOKE. I MIGHT JUST BE A P.A., BUT I HAVE FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES, AND I’M SURE DAGON HAS ONE CRONY OR ANOTHER WHO’D_ GLADLY _TAKE THEIR PENT-UP FRUSTRATION OUT ON YOUR ASS, SINCE THE FIGHT WE WERE PROMISED NEVER HAPPENED—_

“Tanith,” Uriel repeated. “It’s not a joke. It’s _me_. Got an apologetic demon doing me a favor.”

_CROWLEY?_ Tanith guessed, her voice weak. _THAT FLASH BASTARD’S SOFT._

“Me,” Hastur spat. “Tryin’ to organize a reunion for myself. Apparently all it takes to get in the Antichrist’s good books is do nice things for your enemies.”

“Hey, I’m not your enemy!” Uriel said. “I shot Rafe for you!”

_YOU’RE STATIONED WITH RAPHAEL? POOR THING._

“You’re one to talk. You got stuck with Dagon,” Uriel shot back. “But if yours is anything like mine, he’s a sweetheart and a pushover if you press the right buttons.”

Aziraphale gave an undignified snort of laughter, so Hastur glared at him until he sobered again.

“Sorry,” the angel said, “but I just can’t see Raphael being _sweet_ any time this century.”

_I’VE MISSED A LOT, HUH,_ Tanith said wistfully. _AND HERE I THOUGHT I WAS POSITIONED SO AS NOT TO MISS THE BEST OF THE ACTION._

“Tan, it’s...it’s okay,” Uriel said, gazing at the radio as if she could _see_ Tanith’s face.

Hastur leaned back against the headrest and listened to Tanith and Uriel chat back and forth. It was so comfortingly banal that it made him realize how much he missed that part of having Ligur around. Someone to gripe with and confide in. To _understand_ him.

It was a reason to hear his own voice, in a tone that didn’t imply imminent violence. And for someone else to hear it, and know they’d have nothing to fear.

Ligur was the only creature in existence that Hastur _didn’t_ want to harm. Or at least he _had_ been, for the longest time. Just over six thousand human years.

Hastur reached out with his long unused Senses, the ones that stretched beyond the bounds of his corporation. Uriel was an incandescent light beside him, radiating out to mingle with Tanith’s pulsing ultraviolet that emanated from the radio like fog. 

Behind him, Aziraphale and Crowley were twin stars, a binary system in permanent orbit, fused at the place where their hands connected. Human astronomy was onto something.

The ashes in Hastur’s pocket had no light, but they radiated heat: well-loved and _present_.

_SO I GUESS NOBODY KNOWS WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?_ Tanith was saying.

“Neither Heaven, nor Hell have the foggiest,” Aziraphale interjected, “insofar as we’re aware.”

“I think we put a spanner in the works,” Crowley added. “A big one. Jammed the system.”

“I’m gonna catch some hell for it, though,” Uriel sighed. “Me and Rafe both, unfortunately.”

_I WOULDN’T CALL THAT UNFORTUNATE_ , Tanith laughed. _TAKE HIM DOWN A FEW PEGS. IT’D SERVE HIM RIGHT FOR BEING SUCH A TWAT._

“Might it be repeated that she shot him?” Crowley chimed in, gleefully. “In his sword-arm. Er, pollaxe-arm. You get the picture.”

_HE STILL USES THAT STUPID THING? DOES HE STILL TWIRL IT LIKE SOME DRUM MAJOR AT A HOMECOMING GAME?”_

“Thank you, dear girl,” Aziraphale sighed, “for a mental image of which I shall never be free.”

Hastur cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “Right, touchin’ reunion an’ all that. Satisfied?”

“Ask the parties you reunited,” Crowley suggested, leaning against Aziraphale’s shoulder as if he’d grown bored, too, and intended to take a nap. “Their verdict’s the one that counts.”

“Some come to take their ease, and sleep an act or two,” Hastur quoted derisively. “S’rude.”

Crowley shot upright like he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod. “You do know Shakespeare!”

“Just the one,” Hastur admitted, turning in his seat. “June of 1613. We were performin’ some standard temptations in the area, decided to see what all the fuss was about.”

_ON THAT NOTE_ , Tanith said wistfully, _I’D BETTER GET BACK TO WORK. TAKE...TAKE CARE, WON’T YA? I’M SHIT AT GOODBYES._

Uriel set her hand against the Bentley’s dashboard, smiling through her tears. “Yeah, babe.” She pointed at Hastur. “You’ll do this for me again, right?”

Hastur shrugged, but he knew better than to think he wouldn’t. “As long as you stop the smitin’.” 

Relatively ignorant of the current proceedings, Aziraphale began, “Wasn’t that the year—”

“—the theater burned down, yes,” Crowley finished. “I got a Commendation for it.” His voice softened unbearably. “Do you know the whole thing?”

Hastur looked away. “My memory’s sharp as yours, _Crawly_. Comes with the territory. Words that seem important at the time. Faces, so many of ’em. Those most of all.” 

Aziraphale regarded Hastur candidly. “What made those words seem important?”

“Good company, and even better flames,” Hastur sighed, reaching for the radio dial. “All good things are worth burnin’, it seems.”


	7. HOPE

Spending time with Crowley on his own, after so many days enduring him and the angel attached at the hip, was strange to say the least.

“This place’s too fancy,” Hastur said, staring at the brightly-lit sign as they approached. “I ain’t dressed for this sort of thing. What are you playin’ at?”

There was a strangeness to Crowley, lit from behind in an unfamiliar place. “They won’t notice. Perks of demonic power. No one cares what you look like if you don’t want them to.”

“You don’t even need a reservation?” said Hastur, bewildered. “Humans are always fussin’ about those. Easiest Wrath-type temptation in the world, makin’ one of the buggers miss a reservation.” He scratched his jaw. “Or an appointment. Is there a difference?”

Crowley just grabbed Hastur by the sleeve of his grubby black coat and tugged him inside.

“I hope you won’t take offense, but,” he said, and snapped the fingers of his free hand.

Hastur blinked down at his clothes. They were the same as they’d always been, but cleaner. He clutched in his pockets for Ligur’s ashes, knees weakening in relief when he found them still there, sticking to his fingers.

“I didn’t clear your pockets,” explained Crowley, wryly. “Just spruced your ensemble up a bit.”

A dignified gentleman with dark skin and darker eyes approached them. He wore an official-looking uniform fit to rival high-ranking brass in Heaven _or_ in Hell.

When he saw Crowley’s hand on Hastur’s arm, his cheerful expression fell. He looked worriedly at the two of them, crestfallen for some unspecified reason.

Hastur blinked. Of _course_. He laughed before he could stop himself, pulling his coat sleeve out of Crowley’s grip. “Introduce me to this fine gent?” He managed through his laughter.

It took Crowley another moment to process the expressions he was seeing.

“Rashid, hi,” Crowley said, with that irritatingly charming little wave he seemed to offer everyone. “This is my, er, friend,” he went on. “Duke…Hastur. Duke...” he glanced at Hastur, seemingly at a loss.

“Hastur Duke,” he explained, elbowing Crowley in the ribs, somewhat excited at the prospect of assuming a role. “Hal for short! Colleague of this old snake, yeah. We go _way_ back. Don’t you worry, he and Mr. Fell are still an item. Believe me, I’ve been puttin’ up with their nonsense for days. Wouldn’t recommend stayin’ with ’em if you want to get any sleep.”

“I find Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley perfectly delightful,” Rashid answered, admirably restrained.

Crowley had gone slightly pink. “Our usual table, please, Rashid. Az—Mr. Fell won’t mind. We just came from his place.”

“Very good,” Rashid said, spinning gracefully on his heel. “This way. You’re in for quite the experience, Mr. Duke. I’ll see to it personally.”

Hastur broke into a fit of giggles as soon as Rashid was out of earshot, covering his mouth with one hand. “You had the right idea with this one.”

“Listen, I’ve heard about _your_ shenanigans on the odd trip up here,” Crowley said accusingly. “It’s not my fault if I haven’t got your human-alias style down pat!”

“It ain’t that hard, _Anthony J. Crowley_. You’ll have to explain to me sometime how you got _that_ out of—”

“Right this way, gentlemen,” Rashid said, gesturing for them to hurry along. Awfully British.

Hastur growled instinctively at being cut off, and then coughed. “Sorry. Bit of a sore throat.”

“You’re turning downright _polite_ ,” Crowley murmured. “What have we done to you?”

“I’ll show you polite,” Hastur shot back. “Oi, Rashid! _Mate_. I want champagne.”

Either barely fazed or not showing it, Rashid turned to Crowley. “And for you, Anthony?”

“Bottle for the table,” Crowley said absently, pushing aside the drinks menu. “Whatever’s best.”

“I won’t be a moment,” Rashid said, placing a placard-style food menu before each of them.

“So, what’s the J stand for?” Hastur demanded. The question had suddenly come to mind, and it was burning at him.

Crowley gave him a put-upon look. “Where have we spent most of our time during this ordeal?”

“James?” Hastur scoffed.

“Ding ding ding,” Crowley said. “Gold star for you. Pleasant connotations, so I thought—”

“James Bond?” Hastur said with a shrug. “You always did natter on about those bloody films.”

“You know Fleming _and_ Shakespeare? We didn’t have to go far to civilize you, did we.”

“I don’t know nothing about the books, if that’s what you mean,” Hastur said. “So, food?”

“Just pick whatever sounds most interesting,” said Crowley, shrugging. “Or I can recommend.”

There was braised duck on the menu—with _pâté_ , whatever that was. French equivalent of _ciao_ , maybe. Hastur remembered quite liking duck, but now the thought turned his stomach. He looked for something else, and came up blank.

He thought of ducks: of Ligur spitting out feathers, with that impossibly charming, toothy grin. Of Crowley gleefully tossing fruit into the pond. Of France, with its guillotine and powdered wigs, and Ligur with blood all down his front.

“Hastur,” Crowley said, hesitantly waving a hand in front of Hastur’s face. “You still with me?”

“S’hard to think,” Hastur muttered, scrubbing at his eyelids. “Bright in here. Not used to it.”

Crowley slipped off his sunglasses and set them on Hastur’s face. “There.” He studied Hastur with gleaming serpentine eyes, and then smiled. “You ought to get a pair.”

Hastur blinked through the lenses at the mercifully darkened restaurant. He wanted to apologize for having constantly mocked Crowley over his tendency to wear them indoors, but maybe it wasn’t the time and place. They were _bonding_ —or, if not that, something like it.

For the first time since Ligur’s death, he noticed that the pervasive ache in his chest was absent.

Hastur sighed and rubbed at the tablecloth. “We’re here to discuss the next thing, ain’t we.”

“That’s just the thing,” Crowley said, accepting both champagne glasses when Rashid strode up with them. Ceremoniously, he handed Hastur his glass. “Hope isn’t really a trial. Besides, you’ve already been put through the worst wringer I can imagine, and you’re still standing.”

Hastur took a sip and swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t call it standin’, if we’re being honest.”

“You didn’t let it kill you,” Crowley replied, “and you had quite the opportunity the other day.”

“That was mostly dramatics,” Hastur said, not sure he believed himself. It would just have been a formality, driving the pollaxe into his chest. Hastur’s death and Ligur’s were one and the same.

“Still,” Crowley said, taking a long swig of his champagne, as if for courage, “why didn’t you?”

“Dunno.” Hastur shrugged. “Maybe I wanted to spite that stupid Archangel. Maybe I had a point to prove.”

“ _I_ think,” Crowley said, with a hint of emotion, “that you have hope you’ll find your way through this, and get what’s waiting on the other side.”

Hastur drank deeply from his glass. “I’d do anything for him. It’s that _boy_ I don’t trust. Maybe there’s bugger-all I can do to convince him.”

“The maybe-part is important. You still have hope.” Crowley’s eyes gleamed. “That’s what got me through everything. The Flood, Babel, Alexandria, London. The whole blessed fourteenth century. The End of the World. Optimism’s worth cultivating.”

Hastur set his glass down and rubbed the tip of his nose. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Crowley.”

“When did you decide Crawly just isn’t _me_ anymore?” Crowley asked sardonically.

“When Raphael knocked you down,” Hastur admitted, too weary to resist honesty. “An’ I saw you and Aziraphale looking just like I felt when Ligur—” He cut himself off. “It ain’t right for anyone to think that they’re the only one who matters.”

Crowley gulped down the rest of his glass like he couldn’t believe his ears. He glanced at the champagne bottle in its ice bucket. No one said optimism couldn’t be mischievous. He snapped his fingers, and their glasses were full.

“Rashid,” he said when the waiter was back in earshot, “I think we’re going to need another.”


	8. FAITH

“I don’t care,” Crowley was saying, thumping the steering wheel for emphasis. “I’m the driver, so I get to pick the music. It’s always been like that. My car, my rules!”

“Tetchy,” Aziraphale chided with a click of his tongue. “One wonders why the fit of temper.”

“You’re doing this because we have an audience,” Crowley accuses. “You were like this when we had the girl back there, too. _Contrary_.”

“’Tis a cruelty to load a falling man,” Hastur quoted, aggravated. “Just pick _something_. Do you have any idea how grating it is to go from Bach to Mercury in the middle of a song?”

“Ah,” Crowley said, wagging a finger at Hastur’s reflection in the rearview, “but what about Mercury’s _take_ on Bach? I bet you’ve never heard that, eh?”

“Oh Lord, or—or _whomever_ ,” Aziraphale said sarcastically, “transform this cassette.”

The tape buzzed with static, and promptly became the latest Top 40 hit straight out of Dis.

Aziraphale and Crowley stared at each other in blatant shock, before catching sight of Hastur’s gleeful expression in the mirror. Aziraphale looked rather impressed.

“I suppose you think that’s funny,” Crowley sighed, taking the signposted turning for Tadfield.

“Your angel certainly does,” Hastur prodded. A demon could be as polite as the best of humans, but there was always that innate desire for mischief, even of the harmless variety. 

“This is exactly why I’m glad we weren’t hands-on with the child,” Crowley seethed wearily.

“Not until the last moment, anyway,” Aziraphale sighed. “Look how well _that_ went.”

“And here I’d just started thinking you had a knack for sarcasm.”

“Dear boy, I am _being_ sarcastic. In response to your, er, sarcasm.”

“Exactly! Sarcasm’s like a joke. If you have to explain it, it doesn’t work.”

“I didn’t need your explanation! I had _quite_ understood, thank you!”

“Sure you had,” Crowley retorted, but there was no real malice in his words.

“Eyes on the road!” Aziraphale snapped. “The sign-posted limit is thirty.”

Hastur thought it had just been him and Ligur who talked like that. Half annoyed and half adoring, always arguing over the most inconsequential of things.

“Is it a demon thing, d’you reckon?” Hastur mused. “To talk to your, er, partner, like you’re about to start throwing punches?”

“No, it’s a bastard thing,” Crowley replied snippily. “And Aziraphale knows all about that.”

“I assume you’re referring to our _conversation_ shortly before the world spectacularly avoided ending,” said Aziraphale, audibly preening.

“Less of a conversation and more of a confession, angel, don’t you think?” Crowley said fondly.

Hastur closed his eyes. The ache in his chest was almost _pleasant_ now. Closer to expectant joy than despair, fed by the spark of hope he hadn’t drawn on in years.

Faith. Call it what it was. He’d never really lost it, not even in the Fall’s harrowing flame.

Crowley parked where the road—now more of a dirt track—ended, and got out of the car.

“It’s not a far walk from here,” he said, strolling around to get the door for Aziraphale.

“I managed to get the address,” the angel explained. “Before everything went to…” He seemed to hesitate over his choice of words as Hastur got out, too. “Shit.”

“Figures,” Hastur muttered. He still didn’t quite know how the world had been saved—there’d been too much else on his mind to ask the proper questions to fill the gaps in his memory.

Hastur hadn’t paid attention the last time he’d been, but now he saw that Lower Tadfield was as picturesque as prophecy had foretold, with everything that Hastur understood as requisite in an English village. Most of the houses had front gates, flawless lawns, and walled back gardens in riotous bloom.

There was an apple orchard, and it lay just beyond the hedge-row behind the Youngs’ residence.

The boy was waiting for them, leaning on the front gate so hard its ancient hinges creaked.

“I didn’t expect to see you this soon,” Adam remarked lazily, reaching down to pat Dog.

“I’ve done my trials,” Hastur said, already fuming at the sight of the Antichrist and his carefree smile. This was a boy who’d never lost anything, had never grieved. 

Maybe he never _would_ , not if he didn’t want to. It was an infuriating thing to consider.

“Have you, now?” Adam parried. “How d’you reckon I’m s’posed to know they worked?”

Hastur fumed. “You tell me. Ain’t that your—your _thing_ , bein’ all-knowing?”

“Temper,” Adam cautioned, unlatching the gate so he could join them in the dusty lane.

Hastur covered his mouth with one hand and took a breath. _Temperance_ , he thought. 

“Please,” he said. “Please, just bring Ligur back. I said I’d do anythin’, and I’ve done it. This is my last trial, all right? I’m havin’ faith.”

“Show some mercy,” Crowley said from behind Hastur, sounding flat-out _tired_.

“What if I don’t want to?” Adam said. “What if _I_ don’t have faith in _you_?”

“That’s not how your parents raised you,” Aziraphale chided. “That’s not sporting at all.”

Hastur’s field of vision tilted, and then dropped. He realized, numbly, that his knees had buckled, and he’d fallen into the dust. The ache was overwhelming. _Agonizing_ , like he’d swallowed those mirror-shards after all.

Hastur curled his fingers into the dirt and fought for breath, gasping, _choking_.

 _Ashes to ashes_ , he thought, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. _Dust to dust._

Adam tilted his head thoughtfully. “What is it you’ll ask of me? Answer quick an’ honest.”

Hastur gazed defiantly up at him, scattering Ligur’s ashes in the unholy dust at Adam’s feet.

“Bring him back. Bring Ligur back. You fixed everything else, so you’ve got to fix him, too.” 

“Yeah,” Adam prompted, “but why? That’s what I’m after, really. Reasons, not just _because_.”

Hastur’s eyes stung, but he didn’t lower his gaze. “I need him,” he pleaded. “He’s everything to me. You saved the world.” He spat into the ashes, his breath stirring the dust. “Ligur’s _my_ world, d’you hear me? He’s _mine_.”

“Ashes to dust,” Adam said, kneeling to till his fingers in the earth, “and dust to flesh. _There_.”

The last word stilled the air around them, and then Ligur lay between them in the dust.


	9. REWARD

“Woss this, then?” Ligur asked, sitting up so abruptly that everyone present jumped.

“That’s, er,” said Aziraphale, nervously, to break the tense silence, “a long story.”

“You was dead,” Hastur choked, reaching for him, “and now you ain’t. That’s all.”

“Then bein’ dead’s warm,” Ligur said, puzzled as Hastur fell on him. “Safe, too.”

Hastur clutched Ligur to his chest, more than slightly relieved when Ligur latched on and patted his back. The action was easy and familiar, as if they’d just shared a joke.

That was enough to crumble what remained of Hastur’s defenses completely.

“You all right, then?” Ligur asked, in a low, almost gentle voice that didn’t suit him at all.

Still, to hear him fuss like that heated Hastur’s aching chest unbearably.

“Never better,” Hastur managed, pressing his face into Ligur’s shoulder. He was _warm_. Warm and solid in Hastur’s embrace, more reassuring than anything Hastur had ever felt. 

“You’re gonna have to fill me in, I reckon,” Ligur went on, petting Hastur’s hair. “S’all fuzzy.”

“This is perhaps the point at which we ought to bow out,” said Aziraphale, primly awkward.

“You’ve got understatement down to a science,” Crowley deadpanned. “Come _on_ , angel.”

Adam stood without fanfare, brushed off his knees, and went back into the house. Dog followed.

That left Hastur and Ligur alone in the middle of a bright country lane, surrounded by birdsong and sunshine. The scene was everything Hell was not, but it wasn’t _home_.

Eventually, Hastur sat back, running a hand down his face. He rested his forehead against Ligur’s, unable to bear even the meager distance. He didn’t have to say a word.

Ligur kissed him on the mouth, eager and no-nonsense. “That’s how it goes, yeah?”

Hastur nodded, and then kissed him back. “More or less,” he said. “There’s usually music.”

“There’s birds,” Ligur said, contemplating the orchard just beyond their reach. “I’m hungry.”

“I know a place,” Hastur said, beaming unabashedly. He got to his feet, pulling Ligur along. 

Ligur kissed Hastur’s jaw, almost tenderly. “You always know just what ter do, doncha?”

“I don’t know what I’ll do with you,” Hastur replied slyly, grabbing Ligur by the hips, pulling him closer. “It’s a real conundrum, ain’t it.”

“Why not?” Ligur asked, feigning bafflement, wrapping his arms around Hastur’s neck. “I know what I’ll do with _you_.”

“Better lead the way, then,” Hastur suggested, finding it all too easy to press his mouth against Ligur’s jaw. “Don’t think I can wait much longer.”

“But I thought we was goin’ for ducks first?” Ligur said, looking just a little bit heartbroken.

“Fine,” Hastur growled, crushing Ligur to his chest as he snapped his fingers. “Ducks first.”

Rather than opt for free-range in St. James’s Park, they dined at the Ritz like the Dukes of Hell they were. _Pâté_ turned out to be liver, and a tasty accompaniment to the braised duck. There was champagne, too, much better now that every swallow didn’t hurt.

Ligur leaned back when he had finished, sprawling in his chair. He kicked Hastur under the table, then hooked their ankles together. “You liked that, did ya?”

“Why d’you ask?” Hastur replied, dizzy with champagne and sheer relief. “Trying to court me or somethin’, you right git?”

“Well, the world ain’t ending, that’s fer sure.” Ligur emptied his glass in one long swallow. “So there’s not much point in waiting around.” He fixed Hastur with keen eyes. “I’ve been wantin’ you, Hastur. Didn’t know it’d take me gettin’ Holy Water in the face to wake you up.”

“I was a coward.” Hastur turned his face away, covering his mouth, then looked back at Ligur in shock. “You remember that?”

“The Holy Water? Nah. It’s all blurry after the old lady’s flat, but I dunno what else coulda killed me. That Crawly’s a slippery bastard, yeah?”

“He’s got an, eh, acceptable side to him.” Hastur took a weighted pause. “I shouldn’t have let you walk ahead,” Hastur said, the words coming out in a rush. “I should’ve expected him to set a trap. It was for me anyhow, should’ve been me that kicked it. Should’ve told you before it was too late that you’re the _world_ to me, Ligur.”

“Fancy that,” Ligur said, smoothing his hand over the table. When he lifted his palm, three crisp hundred-pound notes lay there. “Enough for tip an’ everything!”

Hastur rose, rounded the table, and yanked Ligur out of his seat by his lapels before Rashid had the chance to notice. He was tired of London, of the bright lights and pervasive chill.

“Ooh,” said Ligur, catching his footing as they re-materialized. “Dizzy. Not even fair warning?”

“Oh, I’ll give you fair bloody warning,” Hastur growled, shoving Ligur down on the tattered bed, nipping at his collarbone. “Next thing I know, you’ll be wantin’ to know exactly what I plan to—”

Ligur shut him up with a kiss, this time a great deal filthier than the ones they’d shared in Tadfield. His hands were already well south of Hastur’s waist, fussing with buttons.

Not to be outdone, Hastur vanished Ligur’s trousers altogether. He gripped him by the thighs, realizing it afforded a far better angle to press their bodies close.

Ligur whined pathetically, but without a shred of shame. “Didn’t know the rules was like _that_ ,” he complained, breath hitching when Hastur’s trousers vanished, too.

“There ain’t no rules,” Hastur snarled fondly, burying his face in Ligur’s unkempt hair. “All I know’s that humans have got this shite figured, so I’m gonna copy ’em.”

“Fine by me.” Ligur got his teeth on Hastur’s neck, bit down until Hastur groaned and shook.

The logistics involved in human activities weren’t a strong point for either one of them, but Hastur thought maybe he’d caught the gist. He pressed Ligur down into the ratty pillows and kissed one side of his neck, clawing affectionately at the other.

“Just see if I let Crowley have all the fun,” Hastur huffed, grinding against him for a moment.

Ligur fumbled between them, taking Hastur’s cock in one hand. He stroked it lazily and said, “I dunno what Crawly’s got ter do with any of this, but suits me.”

Hastur twitched, pressing into Ligur’s touch, resting his forehead on Ligur’s shoulder as he rocked against him. “Him and the angel, they’re the bloody _worst_. Can’t keep their hands to themselves. Made me miss you something awful.”

“That’ll be the day,” Ligur said, humming in approval. “Crawly wouldn’t know his arse from his elbow when it comes to seduction, much less his...you know, from his…”

“Dunno if they did it, but I coulda sworn I saw bites on his neck,” Hastur laughed. “That angel’s got teeth on him. Vicious buggers, didn’t I always tell you?”

Ligur purred, squirming for friction. “Have you got teeth on you, too, or are you all talk?”

Hastur bit until he was sure there would be a bruise, and then lowered himself down onto his elbows. He ducked his head, taking Ligur’s cock in his mouth.

Ligur arched his back, making a strangled sound that was sweeter than Hastur would’ve expected. He clutched at the back of Hastur’s head, heaving for breath.

“Have,” he wheezed, “have you been—practicin’, or is this just somethin’ you’ve _thought_ —” 

Hastur sucked him ruthlessly, suppressing his gag reflex so that he could take Ligur’s full length. Bodies came with some bloody inconvenient features, when it came right down to it, but they also came with some brilliant ones. 

“Please,” Ligur begged, trembling uncontrollably. “ _Hastur_. Hastur, I’m gonna—”

Hastur swallowed when Ligur came, savoring the taste of him down the back of his throat.

“Duck ain’t got a patch on you,” he said gruffly, kissing the inside of Ligur’s thigh. “There.”

Ligur collapsed beneath Hastur, which sent an instinctive surge of panic through Hastur’s chest.

“You want me ter do that?” Ligur asked, his voice rough. “Wanna compare you to lunch, too.” 

“Yeah,” Hastur said, closing his eyes for a moment while Ligur recovered. “If you wouldn’t—”

“Mind?” Ligur demanded earnestly, flipping Hastur onto his back. “I’d do anythin’ fer you.”

It was sufficient echo for Hastur to shake with the memory of it. He cupped Ligur’s cheek, his chest tight with longing. He understood why Crowley had risked everything.

With a look somewhere between adulation and hunger, Ligur bent his head. He nipped and licked at Hastur’s belly, eyes fervently closed. He hadn’t looked like that since— _since_ —

Hastur trembled with more than desire as Ligur worked his way down and finally took Hastur’s cock in his mouth. He licked at the tip, teasingly playful, before sucking him in.

“Oh, if you could see yerself,” Hastur sighed, raking his fingers reverently through Ligur’s hair.

Ligur glanced up at him, his sudden fit of startled laughter causing him to choke. “Oi, rude.”

“Shut it,” Hastur murmured adoringly, flopping back against the pillows. “S’just...just like…”

“You all right, then?” Ligur asked, crawling up the length of Hastur’s body, cupping Hastur’s cheek with one trembling hand. “I know it ain’t what you asked for, but I want…”

“You been askin’ that a lot,” Hastur said, suddenly overcome. “Do I look like somethin’s wrong?” He kissed Ligur on the chin. “What d’you want, love?”

“You’re kinda…” Ligur trailed off, chewing pensively on his lower lip. “You’re softer.”

“I did what I had to do to get you back,” Hastur squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t bear to see rejection in Ligur’s eyes, not so soon after— “I can’t change it.”

“Love,” Ligur repeated, blinking as if he’d only just heard the endearment. “D’you mean it?”

“Of course I mean it,” Hastur scoffed, eyes still petulantly shut. “I defended a traitor and an angel from two Archangels who woulda made mincemeat of me if one of ’em hadn’t had a crush on one of ours for the longest time. I let fuckin’ _Uriel_ communicate with Management. If Dagon overheard, or if Tanith don’t hold her tongue, I’m done for. I fed _ducks_ , Ligur, fer cryin’ out loud!” He panted. “I’ll never hold power again, if a single thing I did for you gets out. Damn right, I’m softer. I let Crowley change me. Let _you_ change me!”

Hastur stopped, gasping for air. Ligur was dragging his thumb gently across Hastur’s cheek, hypnotically back and forth. He leaned in and kissed Hastur softly.

“So yeah,” Hastur concluded, finally opening his eyes. “You’re my love. You’re my whole damned, blessed world.”

Ligur processed that for a moment, stroking the side of Hastur’s face. “ _Shhh_. Yer my love, too. You always was. I just couldn’t put it in words, an’ then it was too late.”

“It ain’t too late now,” Hastur turned his face against Ligur’s cradling hand, kissing his palm.

“What did you do? When I was dead, I mean?” Ligur asked. “Because I can’t figure why— ” 

Hastur huffed in frustration, keenly aware Ligur had left him in the lurch. “I just said—”

“Nah,” Ligur cut him off, pressing his thigh between Hastur’s. “With me, I mean. My ashes.”

Hastur sniffed and hauled him down, clinging to him tightly. “Had you in my pockets.” 

“Aw,” Ligur murmured, kissing Hastur’s cheek as he ground against him. “That’s sweet. Also, it explains why I felt like I did while I was—well, I was somewhere. I was with you.”

Hastur wanted to respond, wanted to say he’d never left Ligur, either, never for an _instant_ —but the breath was forced from his lungs. He gasped and shuddered beneath Ligur’s warmth.

Ligur rocked him through it, smiling down at him in toothy satisfaction. “S’nice, isn’t it.”

Hastur pressed his forehead to Ligur’s collarbone, trembling with aftershocks. “Nice?”

“Yeah,” Ligur mused, idly kissing the top of his head. “Real specific. Nothin’ else like it.”

“Sure ain’t,” Hastur muttered, untangling himself, lying back. He ran shaking fingers through his hair and vanished the rest of their clothing, damp as it had gotten.

“You okay?” Ligur asked, again, with worry in his voice. He stroked Hastur’s cheek with his knuckles.

“Of course,” Hastur said, tugging on Ligur’s arm until he lay down, pressing them close. “I’m with you.”


End file.
